Read Online An Awfully Big Adventure by Beryl Bainbridge - Free Book Online
Authors: Beryl Bainbridge
Tags: Fiction, General, Psychological, Action & Adventure, Large Type Books, Teenage girls, Actresses, Liverpool (England)
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elderly men; stage-hands and fly-men, none of whom were needed for this particular production but who were there just the same, heating cans of baked beans in a saucepan on the fire. George said that Rose Lipman, having climbed from slop-girl at Kelly’s Melodrama Theatre in Paradise Street to manager of the repertory company, didn’t hold with casual labour. Any day the D’Oyly Carte could disembark at Lime Street station and hire every available hand. Geoffrey said it was altruistic extravagance. ‘It’s not your bleeding money,’ George reminded him.
Someone called Prue, who until today had remained hidden in the wardrobe-room on the first floor pedalling her sewing machine, had a chair allocated for her use in the prompt corner and a space reserved for cotton reels and safety pins on the props table in the wings. Every time the actors passed in their evening dress she was there, flicking at their shoulders with a dampened clothes brush.
‘That’s my wardrobe mistress,’ cried St Ives, winking suggestively and hugging her until she squirmed.
‘I’m nobody’s mistress, you daft beggar,’ she countered, beating him with mock ferocity about the head, cheeks burning with delight.
St Ives had pencilled a little red spot at the corner of each eye, to make them look bigger. Wearing grease paint, he appeared younger and yet more sinister. But then they all did, even Grace Bird. They looked both sly and exhilarated, as though they were off to some party that would end in tears.
At half past one Geoffrey confided he was worried about Dawn Allenby.
‘Why?’ asked Stella.
‘She’s got a bottle in her dressing-room and it’s almost empty. And she’s sitting in a peculiar way, staring at herself in the mirror.’
‘That’s not peculiar,’ Stella said. ‘You do it all the time.’
He flounced off, tugging at his hair.
Stella’s main job was to sit in the prompt corner with the book. Earlier, supervised by George, she had added a tablespoon of Camp coffee to half a pint of water and poured it into the cut glass whisky decanter on the sideboard. She had polished the glasses and checked there were seven Capstan in the cigarette box set on the low table beside the settee. George said that if she put in more the whole lot would be gone before the curtain rose on Act Two. The box was a musical one and made of silver. When opened it played the chorus of ‘Spread a Little Happiness’, although the book stipulated it ought to be the ‘Wedding March’.
Dotty wore a sleeveless dress of black velvet caught at the hip with a diamanté buckle. The flesh of her upper arm hung down when she reached for a cigarette, but it scarcely mattered. She was beyond that sort of upset. Her mouth was a red gash in her powdered face and when in Act Two she told her husband that the degenerate Martin had never loved her, never ever, even though they’d conducted an affair, real tears trickled from her tragic eyes.
At seven o’clock Stella was sent out to buy bacon sandwiches. It was dark and rain spat on the cobblestones. She ran to the café and fretted while the rashers sizzled on the stove; she couldn’t wait to get back to that make-believe room blazing with light. Returning across the square she felt she was going home; not for one moment did she confuse such a place with the Aber House Hotel.
Meredith was sitting in the stalls with his feet propped up on the row in front.
‘The play’s awfully good, isn’t it?’ Stella said, handing him his sandwich.
‘In your opinion,’ he asked, ‘what is it about?’
‘Love,’ she said, promptly, for she had given it some thought. ‘People loving people who love somebody else.’
He explained she was mistaken. Mostly it had to do with Time. ‘Think of it this way,’ he urged, ‘we are all mourners following a funeral procession and some of us, those of us more directly concerned with the departed, have dropped behind to tie a shoe-lace. Contact with the beloved has
Someone called Prue, who until today had remained hidden in the wardrobe-room on the first floor pedalling her sewing machine, had a chair allocated for her use in the prompt corner and a space reserved for cotton reels and safety pins on the props table in the wings. Every time the actors passed in their evening dress she was there, flicking at their shoulders with a dampened clothes brush.
‘That’s my wardrobe mistress,’ cried St Ives, winking suggestively and hugging her until she squirmed.
‘I’m nobody’s mistress, you daft beggar,’ she countered, beating him with mock ferocity about the head, cheeks burning with delight.
St Ives had pencilled a little red spot at the corner of each eye, to make them look bigger. Wearing grease paint, he appeared younger and yet more sinister. But then they all did, even Grace Bird. They looked both sly and exhilarated, as though they were off to some party that would end in tears.
At half past one Geoffrey confided he was worried about Dawn Allenby.
‘Why?’ asked Stella.
‘She’s got a bottle in her dressing-room and it’s almost empty. And she’s sitting in a peculiar way, staring at herself in the mirror.’
‘That’s not peculiar,’ Stella said. ‘You do it all the time.’
He flounced off, tugging at his hair.
Stella’s main job was to sit in the prompt corner with the book. Earlier, supervised by George, she had added a tablespoon of Camp coffee to half a pint of water and poured it into the cut glass whisky decanter on the sideboard. She had polished the glasses and checked there were seven Capstan in the cigarette box set on the low table beside the settee. George said that if she put in more the whole lot would be gone before the curtain rose on Act Two. The box was a musical one and made of silver. When opened it played the chorus of ‘Spread a Little Happiness’, although the book stipulated it ought to be the ‘Wedding March’.
Dotty wore a sleeveless dress of black velvet caught at the hip with a diamanté buckle. The flesh of her upper arm hung down when she reached for a cigarette, but it scarcely mattered. She was beyond that sort of upset. Her mouth was a red gash in her powdered face and when in Act Two she told her husband that the degenerate Martin had never loved her, never ever, even though they’d conducted an affair, real tears trickled from her tragic eyes.
At seven o’clock Stella was sent out to buy bacon sandwiches. It was dark and rain spat on the cobblestones. She ran to the café and fretted while the rashers sizzled on the stove; she couldn’t wait to get back to that make-believe room blazing with light. Returning across the square she felt she was going home; not for one moment did she confuse such a place with the Aber House Hotel.
Meredith was sitting in the stalls with his feet propped up on the row in front.
‘The play’s awfully good, isn’t it?’ Stella said, handing him his sandwich.
‘In your opinion,’ he asked, ‘what is it about?’
‘Love,’ she said, promptly, for she had given it some thought. ‘People loving people who love somebody else.’
He explained she was mistaken. Mostly it had to do with Time. ‘Think of it this way,’ he urged, ‘we are all mourners following a funeral procession and some of us, those of us more directly concerned with the departed, have dropped behind to tie a shoe-lace. Contact with the beloved has
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